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    Love At Your Own Risk
    Love At Your Own Risk
    Love At Your Own Risk
    Ebook191 pages2 hours

    Love At Your Own Risk

    By Blair Bancroft

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    About this ebook

    After winning a case she wished she'd lost (the defendant was a rapist), defense attorney Victoria Kent rushes off to her parents' vacation cottage on Cape Cod, only to find herself nose-to-nose with a 9mm Glock. It seems the cottage is occupied. By John Paolillo, a homicide detective from New Haven who has been sentenced to two weeks' "rest" after hitting a defense attorney.

    John offers to share—after all, the cottage has a separate basement apartment. Reluctantly, Vicki agrees. Alas, John has another problem—his car died. Inevitably, they end up exploring the outer Cape together and manage to fool themselves into thinking people with diametrically opposite views of the law can become a couple. Their relationship even survives a surprise visit from Vicki's alleged fiancé. But when they leave Cape Cod's less well-known byways to walk the teeming streets of Provincetown, disaster strikes.

    Vicki rushes back to Boston, John returns to New Haven. They've reached a no hope impasse. Unless some wise soul can find a way past the basic conflict that has split them apart.

    AUTHOR'S NOTE: My love of Cape Cod inspired this classic romance, with the outer Cape as the most important secondary character. Hopefully, my knowledge of the Cape as it was, will be enough to inspire forgiveness for any errors made due to changing times. (This tale was written more than ten years ago and first appeared as the Kensington Precious Gem, HE SAID, SHE SAID.) If you've never been to Cape Cod, I hope this story will inspire you to take a look.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateNov 27, 2011
    ISBN9780983807551
    Love At Your Own Risk
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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      Book preview

      Love At Your Own Risk - Blair Bancroft

      Love At Your Own Risk

      by Blair Bancroft

      Published by Kone Enterprises

      at Smashwords

      Copyright 2011 by Grace Ann Kone

      For other books by Blair Bancroft,

      please see http://www.blairbancroft.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

      Chapter One

      The weight of the world began to lift as Vicki crossed the Sagamore Bridge. The graceful curves of the spot-lit steel webbing above her were a lifeline to sanity. Cape Cod. The land of soft-spoken people who lived life at their own deliberate pace. Sand and wind-stunted scrub pine, soft salt breezes that could transform into violent nor’easters within the turn of an hourglass. Booming surf that could be heard from one side of the Cape to the other. Bayberries, cranberries, blueberries, beach plums. Wild roses, cattails, marsh mallow, goldenrod . . .

      Vicki’s eyes pricked with tears, the dark road before her misted. Fortunately, at two in the morning the Mid-Cape Highway was nearly deserted. On a Friday night during the Season it would still be bumper to bumper with cars coming on-Cape for the weekend, but it was Wednesday—no, Thursday—of the second week in September. She could stretch for the box of tissues on the floor in front of the passenger seat and not worry about her Beamer drifting into other traffic.

      There! That was better. After blowing her nose and wiping her eyes, Vicki drew in a lungful of Cape Cod air. She was quite certain no spa in Colorado, Arizona, or Switzerland could possibly compete. When it came to therapy for the soul, this sixty-plus miles of peninsula stretching out into the Atlantic Ocean was the place to be. Shaped like a well-muscled arm shaking its fist at a distant Boston, Cape Cod had a character all its own. With a silent prayer that the highway patrol had other fish to fry tonight, Vicki pressed her foot to the gas, rocketing down the road, her goal a town so far out on the cape that only eight miles of sandy soil separated the Atlantic Ocean from Cape Cod Bay. The signs rolled by—Sandwich, Barnstable, Hyannis, Yarmouth, Dennis, Harwich, Brewster, Chatham.

      Orleans. Refuge. Vicki exited the Mid-Cape onto Route 6A, drove through the dark and lifeless center of the town, hung a right and kept on going. As she approached the ocean, the three-quarter moon illuminated the landscape, revealing shadowed silhouettes of homes in the classic squares and rectangles of Cape Cod salt box architecture. Trees became sparse, diminished in size. The slightly rolling terrain flattened into the top of a long, towering bluff. Nauset Heights. The last bit of land between the United States and Portugal. The ocean wasn’t visible, but the roar of the surf filled the car. Once again, Vicki had to reach for the tissue box. She was almost there. And never had she been in so much need of a safe haven. Of sanctuary for a wounded spirit.

      She turned left onto the road that ran along the top of the great sand cliff above Nauset Beach. The houses, clustered nearly wall to wall on both sides of the narrow road, were mostly cottages never intended for year-round living. Her destination was one of the exceptions. Overlooking the gentle bay that was the town’s boating access to the Atlantic, the house had a basement with oil furnace, four bedrooms and an attic. As Vicki pulled into the sand and shell driveway, the weathered gray shingles shimmered silver in the moonlight. Deliverance. She’d done it. She’d escaped.

      Vicki switched off the ignition and took a deep breath. The tang of salt was much stronger here. Fishing her keys out of her purse, she climbed the steps to the porch, put her back to the screen door to keep it open and inserted the key in the Yale lock. As with most waterfront homes, the door on the street side was the back of the house. She would be entering through a small entry hall. To the left was the kitchen; to the right, the staircases up and down; straight ahead, a hallway running the width of the house. Once inside, Vicki flipped on the porch light, leaving the entry hall in darkness, and went back to the car for her suitcase. Suddenly, the thought of crawling into bed, pulling the comforter up to her chin, was heavenly. Tonight, at last, she was going to be able to sleep. And tomorrow she would wake to the clean brilliance of Cape Cod sunshine, the twitter of birds, the piercing cries of seagulls, the smell of wood smoke . . .

      Vicki dragged her suitcase up the steps, juggled the screen door again, thunked her case onto the braided rug just inside the door. Why had she packed so much stuff? She only planned to be here for a few days. Just long enough to get her head together.

      The hall light came on. Like a deer frozen in a hunter’s spotlight, Vicki couldn’t move. There was something, a large dark something at the far end of the hallway. Moving toward her . . . becoming a man. Her brain would only function in clichés, silently screaming robber, rapist, murderer. Tall, dark, and menacing. As was the big black gun pointing straight at her.

      So who the hell are you? the man with the gun demanded as he came to a halt about five feet short of her quivering form.

      Who am I? Vicki echoed, anger overwhelming shock. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

      "Your house?"

      Well . . . my parent’s house, Vicki conceded.

      The gun disappeared. Into the back of his waistband, Vicki thought, swallowing hard as she realized that’s all he was wearing. Faded jeans and nothing else. Except the big black gun.

      Detective Lieutenant John Paolillo, he snapped as if on the parade ground. New Haven Police Department. Sorry, but I left my badge on the dresser. I can get it if you’d like. There seems to have been some mixup about the rental.

      Vicki regretted the old house was so sturdily built that there was no hope of the floor opening up to swallow her. I’m sorry, she gasped. I never thought . . . My parents don’t usually rent past Labor Day. It never occurred to me that someone was here. Across the width of the living room she gaped at him, suddenly speechless. Two-thirty in the morning and she’d intruded on a renter. Even if she weren’t a member in good standing with the Massachusetts bar, she had been raised to know the legal rights of a renter. It was she who was trespassing. If she hadn’t been so determined on running away to the Cape, she would have had sense enough to call the rental agency. But, then, she hadn’t decided to come until past eleven tonight.

      I beg your pardon, Vicki murmured. I’ll leave immediately . . . find a motel. She reached for her suitcase, began to back toward the door.

      Don’t be silly, the man snapped. Isn’t there an apartment downstairs? Marge Snow, the rental agent, mentioned it, said no one would be there.

      An efficiency. Vicki nodded. One room and bath. We only rent it at the height of the season. What had he said his name was?

      Better than a motel, the alleged detective pointed out with inescapable, if annoying, logic. Wait just a minute, he ordered, turning and plunging through the door leading to the largest bedroom. He was back in less than half a minute, striding across the wooden floor to thrust a badge under Vicki’s nose. See, he declared, I really am a cop. Not exactly harmless but, believe me, I’m not about to screw up my career attacking my landlord’s daughter while vacationing on the Cape.

      Vicki stared blindly at the badge. As a criminal trial lawyer, she’d seen her share of badges. This one definitely didn’t look as if he’d picked it up at the local toy shop. Okay, she said with a sigh, I’m tired. I’ll try downstairs tonight and figure the rest out in the morning.

      There was a brief struggle as he reached for the suitcase. Their hands touched, and Vicki jumped back as if scalded. Don’t be silly, he growled as he tightened his grip on the heavy case. You look like you’ll be lucky to get yourself down the stairs, let alone the suitcase. He flashed her an exaggerated grimace as he hefted the case. What’d you pack, bricks?

      Vicki ignored his sarcasm. His earlier remark was bad enough. That’s all she needed—to hear she looked as awful as she felt.

      With a sweep of his hand, he motioned her ahead of him. She shot back the bolt at the top of the cellar stairs, flipped the light switch and started down, nearly recoiling at the blast of cool damp air sweeping up from below. Obviously, Mr. Macho had not turned on the heat. Five feet of the north wall’s eight-foot clearance were above ground, tucked into the slope of the bluff above Nauset Harbor, and the wind off the Atlantic had no difficulty penetrating the windows and separate entrance door set into the seaward wall. Which was why the efficiency, intended only for summer use, came with a space heater. Vicki heard what sounded like a soft but heartfelt curse as the renter’s bare feet hit the basement’s cement floor.

      This half of the lower level was the furnace room and workshop. Vicki hastened to open the door to the enclosed right side of the basement. She flipped a switch, revealing a cozy room that was mostly queensize bed. For some unaccountable reason she could feel a blush suffusing her face. Her body, as well as her mind, was overwhelmingly conscious of being alone with a strange man in a bedroom in the wee hours of the night.

      She needed to apologize for her intrusion. She needed to thank him for allowing her to stay, but her usually glib tongue seemed frozen to her mouth. Also, she didn’t know quite where to look. The cold air had pebbled his nipples, which were protruding from a ruffled pool of black hair. And the jeans . . . well, the jeans too seemed to have a distinct bulge. Vicki gulped. She was thirty-one years old, for heaven’s sake. A successful attorney. She could handle this. Thank you very much, I’ll be fine now, she told him as he straightened from laying her suitcase on the luggage rack. I’m–uh–very sorry to have disturbed your sleep. The whole thing is entirely my fault. For the sake of good manners, she had to look up.

      Bad move. He was everyone’s idea of what a tough cop should be. Dirty Harry with straight black hair, hard brown eyes and a slash of a mouth that looked as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word smile.

      No problem. He gave her a curt nod and headed for the door.

      The gun was gone, Vicki noted. Only the badge now flopped over the back of his low-slung jeans. Dear God, why was it men who got born with no hips?

      Wait a minute! With sudden panic Vicki realized she’d missed something. Possibly something vital. The kind of detail a good defense attorney was never supposed to miss. Where’s your car? Vicki demanded. If I’d seen a car, I would have known someone was here.

      He stopped, turned, crossed his arms over his bare chest. Lazily, he leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, his chiseled features rearranging themselves into what Vicki could only call a leer. Appalled, she realized she much preferred the expressionless cop to whatever was standing before her now. Her heart began to race.

      Fuel pump died yesterday as I pulled off the Mid-Cape, he pronounced in a fair imitation of a laconic Cape Cod drawl. Tow truck dropped me at the real estate office. Marge Snow took me for groceries, drove me out here. Said she’d pick me up when the car was ready. Nice lady, he added. Your parents are well represented.

      Oh. He was enjoying this, Vicki realized. The beast. Waving the name of their rental agent in front of her like a red flag. Tomorrow she’d be out of here. But she didn’t want to be anywhere else. This was refuge. A motel just wouldn’t do. You cook? she heard herself ask. An uninspired taunt, but she needed to demonstrate skepticism, control. The man had shaken her badly.

      Yeah, I cook. He did a quick survey of the room. You got a kitchen down here?

      Pullman. It’s enough, Vicki replied stiffly.

      The rise of a thin black brow said he doubted it. He straightened up, gave her a look that might have been an attempt at appearing friendly. Maybe you can save Marge a trip, give me ride into town when the car’s ready.

      Marge. He was already on a first-name basis with the real estate agent. Who was only a year older than Vicki and actively hunting husband number three. Sure, Vicki replied through clenched teeth. Be glad to.

      Well, goodnight then. He sketched her a salute. The door closed behind him.

      Her knees turned to water, Vicki sank down onto the bed. The quiet, peaceful sanctuary she had longed for had become the home of the Minotaur. And she strongly suspected she was the sacrificial maiden destined for the great beast’s pleasure.

      After Ellie’s death, he’d embraced celibacy with something closer to enthusiasm than resignation. He’d had a good marriage, which had ended too soon. But that was it. He didn’t want another. His job was his life. Guilt over neglecting another good woman wasn’t part of John Paolillo’s plans. His nose to the old grindstone, he’d set his sights on his job and where it was taking him. Okay, so it was tunnel vision at its most intense. In two and a half years he’d fallen from celibacy only a handful of times. And now he was paying for it. He’d seen the woman’s eyes fixed on the bulge in his jeans. He hadn’t been that embarrassed since he was a sophomore in high school. Though damned if he’d let her know it. Just because he’d been alone with a drop-dead gorgeous blond in the middle of the night . . . in a room that was mostly bed . . .

      John slammed his badge down on the dresser, tucked the gun he’d discarded earlier back into the drawer of the small table beside the bed. Without slipping off his jeans, he sank down onto the bed and dropped his head into his hands. The fool woman wasn’t even his type. She was the kind he and Ellie had either scorned or laughed about when they’d had to show up at a charity event or been forced into the political correctness of attending some function at Yale. Town-gown relations, that’s what the

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